


Anything For You

by gecgec



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Person POV - Alexander Hamilton, Friends to Lovers, Multi, OOC, Past Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Slow Burn, Soccer, Tags Are Hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26148697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gecgec/pseuds/gecgec
Summary: Hi, I’m Alex, I’m 20 and a half, and I can’t remember the last time I left the state. Living is hard, like, really hard, so I might as well make life my own, yeah? It’s pretty easy to do that when you stick out like a sore thumb.Not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing, but yeah! I’ll fucking take it.
Relationships: Aaron Burr & Alexander Hamilton, Alexander Hamilton & Maria Reynolds, Alexander Hamilton & Thomas Jefferson, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, Thomas Jefferson/Maria Reynolds
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	Anything For You

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there.
> 
> I’ve been in the Hamilton fandom since 2016—which is too long— but yes, I’ve been here for a long while. Reading. Writing. Watching people make things for this fandom. I’ve been writing for the Hamilton fandom since about 2018 but I’ve finally gotten the courage to move to ao3. Its nice here. I like it. The people are splendid. There’s a very smooth maturity here that a lot of people have. It’s very different, but it’s a change I am accepting with open arms.
> 
> On that note, sit back, relax! Enjoy the show.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm Alex, I'm 20 and a half, and I can't remember the last time I've left the state.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everybody. 
> 
> I already have chapter 2 and 3 ready. They're both also unimpressively long (for chapters) because I feel like longer chapters are very nice. They mark arcs as well as moments in time. 
> 
> John's characterization was difficult. As balls. 
> 
> Feedback is always welcome and appreciated, leave comments on what you like and dislike/whatever. Thank you.

Trying to branch out of my 12x12 room with the largest window facing a polluted goose pond is one thing. At this point, living in the same house, in the same room for 20 years of my life starts to do something to you (me). You start to see things that aren’t there (like instead of geese, swans) and you start to picture things you normally don’t want to picture. Take bigfoot, for example. I know there’s people who search for bigfoot, or whatever, but they’re sociopaths. I’m sorry, I don’t actually make the rules; I decipher and run them over and pick which ones are good, which ones have a nice flow to them. A nice ring to them. Some things are horrible and trashy, like that one Goodwill that smelled like mayonnaise and liquid medicine but it got shut down because the owner accidentally set fire to the sign, thus being arrested for arson. His son was non-stop talking about how good he looked in his mugshots throughout September and October. No one agreed. However, some things are good, like the kind corner store on the block with a sort of energy my neighborhood full of pineapple-lovers like to ignore. Illegal fireworks; makeshift women-pothole-nests; the works- it’s something different, I like to think. You don’t really get a lot of difference in the middle of Rocky Nowhere, New Jersey™.

The cul-de-sac separates into 5 branches; it’s big, but it’s not brooding. It has a very calming atmosphere, almost nostalgic (what’s nostalgia if you haven’t experienced anything else?) but the picnic table I sit at which is mirroring the lanky park with the one slide that’s cut in half because of hurricane season (that they never bothered to fix) is currently _covered_ in dry bird poop. The entire _park_ looks like a landmine covered in egg whites.

Honestly, I don’t know what else could truly, unapologetically make my day. 

God, please kill me. 

Rich people scare me. They have to worry about taxes and bills and really chunky expensive jewelry. And if they can buy Harvard a library to get their kid into college. However, I’ve always wanted to be able to accomplish actual things that need to be happening, like my _emotions being conquered_ and my crippling _fear of leaving my home_ , _and graduating_ but I can’t even process my classes, let alone process life milestones. Life is like really stingy mouthwash. 

I’ve never reached Cloud 9 before. I’d like to think that if you have any sort of fortune, you can be fearless, you can be worshipped. That the worries that itch my mind wouldn’t even be of concern to the top 5% (10%, 20%, the list goes on) but I’m not rich, I’m not at that level of spirituality and I’m not capable to daydream enough to actually manifest or point fingers into my life to make it something sort of non-catastrophic; I still cry and stuff. College didn’t debuff my emotions yet. I’m waiting for the hard drugs to kick in. 

Not everyone gets into college with a scholarship, though. Yeah, I’m spectacular. And _lucky_ , holy fuck. I’m pretty sure I got the scholarship because the board felt bad for me. Take Thomas, for example. I’m _assuming_ he’s a level of wicked rich; a Virginian with a heart of fucking fire, like those little ants. He smells like white claw and sweaty sheets and his entire brand is Trident Tropical Twist gum and his obsessive compulsive hair...twirling. He talks a lot, but he knows he can get away with it (whether it’s because he has good breath or an even better spending schedule, I wouldn’t know) and I’m not the kind of guy to stop him entirely; I could, technically _dismantle him_ like he’s a truck, but I’m literally _so_ level-headed. 

What people normally do to rich people is _shit_ on them, but they’re never discreet. They use them as toilet paper, and the good kind too; the one that feels like a silk-cotton brand, or if you’re lucky, all silk, even though it mostly just spreads the shit around your cheeks. However, I’m not sure if Thomas’s family is even in the top 25%, so I usually leave that fact alone, even though it’s quite unredeemable because he doesn’t let us hear the end of it. 

Ma sent me off without breakfast. It’s not her job to feed me breakfast, of course, I am a functioning adult and I can actually aim when I piss. But, being her only child in the flesh is a bit of a task on its own. She could at least _reward_ me. The de-sac had a bit of codependency to the 91% white race, so the places to actually eat here taste like rotting eggnog and/or are outrageously expensive, and Thomas nor anyone else enjoys paying for me because to be frank, I don’t pay them back. Why pay them back with money I don’t have? 

John is now sitting across from me, uninvited, hands deep into his McDonalds bag. My brain sinks into my stomach. I dig through my backpack, instead, as a distraction. I feel his eyes glaring into my spine and pull out my notebook. The notebook above all notebooks. It’s green, but it’s a nice lime green; not the color of lime like the _lime_ , but the color lime like the Home Depot paint. I overlined and rewrote the cover so many times people think it’s a rebranded Taylor Swift song; it’s absolutely covered in sharpie doodles and writing that mostly consisted of penises and non-casual banter between myself and I in my lectures. What can I say? I’m a natural artist. It’s a blossoming trait I have. 

“You still haven’t gotten rid of that notebook,” John clicked his tongue in disapproval. His eyes narrowed involuntarily, and I felt his gaze of resentment settle onto me. I gulped, this sudden breezy day in the park now feeling like a trial where John is the judge, the jury, and my attorney. _And_ the victim and the perpetrator and the actual structure of the courtroom. 

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Silence erupted between us. He pulled out his fries and picked at them disapprovingly. I held in a breath.

“You know, I can just get you a new one,” he offered, looking up with the slightest bit of hope. His eyes curled upwards, like he was going to smile, but he didn’t. He shook the fries towards me. I took two. 

The amount of times I’m bullied about this notebook is insane, you know. According to Wikipedia and some obscure porn site I clicked on during break on “accident”, people with the messiest handwriting _are_ the smartest. And, being the dictator of rules that I am, decided to adopt this fact into my plethora of facts. 

“I don’t need your charity, John.” Yeah, I could’ve been lying through my teeth; I definitely did not need his charity, but I sure as hell wanted it. John Laurens, living in a family of 5.5 (.5 being the dog) with two sisters, a mom and a dad; his life seeming very factory-made and unapologetically...lackluster. He lives in the ugliest brown minimansion on the block, one of seven houses with a pool and as a bonus, a red and yellow swing set in the backyard. Everyone in the family is too old to use it, so it just sits there, rusting. His dad owns a few dozen banks scattered along the Tri-State Area. His mom runs a really spontaneous blog. 

“Whatever you say,” He said, tutting his lips and rolling his eyes. I would kill him at dawn. 

“What happened to your southern hospitality?”

“We’re not at the house.”

The amount of time I spend with John is tremendous, however, I have never heard John refer to his house as a home. He clicked his tongue in a sort of remorse, and he opened the sweet and sour sauce. I could smell his fury. And the fries. I want more.

“Um, sure. Okay. I didn’t do the work either, if that’s why you’re being so annoying.” I said, rolling my eyes and putting the notebook back into my backpack. 

“What? No. I’m always like this. Shut up,” He started, but then finished, cutting himself off and putting his hands into his lap, almost like his fingers were greaseless. “Promise to not get your panties in a twist like always.” 

“I won’t, I promise,” I said, not even expecting John to continue; even if it’s not about him, John isn’t someone to overshare. But his face either portrayed blossoming anger or he drank tequila before he sat down in front of me. In other words, he looked constipated, to put it delicately.

“No, you will, because I thought of texting you last night but I didn’t know if you weren’t going through one of your episodes again.”

“Nah. I ordered chinese food and didn’t eat it.” John shook his head dismissively, his hand going back to the fries. 

“Thomas ranted to me for hours last night--” 

“We talked about this, John.” My voice level raised, but he slammed his fist onto the shitty park table. Ouch. The iron ringing hurt my ears and his hand was turning red, so I shut up and sat back down.

“Shut up. I knew you’d get like this. Anyways, he’s saying he found the love of his life and he’s planning on going out with her. But surprise! She doesn’t know he exists. I’m not even sure if she knows I exist.” John, unimpressed as always, suddenly flicked his gaze over my shoulder. I didn’t breathe. Was there a bee on me? More bird shit? My head turns involuntarily, hopefully not staring death in the face. 

“Speak of the devil,” He whispered, eyes returning to their normal, vegetative state. I turned my body all the way around, and my eyes met hers.

_Maria._

“Maria? Holy shit, hey!” I called, feeling John’s surprised glare breathing down my neck hairs. My stomach did hurdles. I’d probably have to explain this to him later. 

“Hi, Alex. What’s up?” She looked very pensive, with her chapped lips (adorning a very still smile) and her tired eyes which bore into mine, but she still somehow looked… chipper. 

“I’m good. Great, actually. How are you?” Her eyes dropped to her lap, and her bottom lip trembled like a buoy in the middle of the ocean. Yikes. 

“I’m… okay. Thank you for asking. Yeah.” She smiled again, but then her eyes flicked back to her phone like that was more important than our dwindling conversation. It probably was. 

I’m still not sure how I know Maria. I know she’s a friend of my mom’s younger sister who she’s estranged from (but I talk to her behind my mom’s back) and we ate dinner together once at this fusion french-mexican-japanese-chinese-???-restaurant; I don’t actually know what they had, because Maria ended up ordering for me (I couldn’t read the menu out loud without sounding racist). She had a very lithe accent and a bitter sense of humor, especially when teetering onto the drunk side, making very questionable jokes but me laughing anyways, eventually spilling her guts to me _in french_. I had only known her for what, forty-five and a half minutes and it felt like she was mentally rearranging my guts with a corkscrew and a hyena. She reassured me the day after over the phone that I quote unquote didn’t need to understand what she said, and I was perfectly fine living in the language-barrier dark because some things people do drunk… are not things I would like to remember. 

I wonder why she’s not showing this side now. I opened my mouth to say something, but I stopped. 

John finally spoke again. “How do you two know each other?”

“Family friends,” I said, not exactly a lie. I nodded to myself, hands drumming on the table. John looked skeptical, as always, but he didn’t push the topic. Instead, he wrapped up the McDonald’s bag and put it into his bag. 

“We should probably be going,” John said, Maria looking up from her phone and smiling dully. 

“Yeah. Definitely. Um, I’ll see you soon Maria, yeah?” I asked, feeling hopeful, but probably looking otherwise. She wasn’t phased, though. She brightened slowly, her eyes jabbing towards John and then looking back at me.

“Yeah. Bye.” 

“You can chill at me casa. Ma is probably lonely.”

“Maybe.”

“Well, you know the addy. Just call her before you arrive. She doesn’t like the sound of the doorbell.”

“Will do, Alex. Thank you.” My heart did somersaults. Did I just invite a potential lesbian into my home? Of course I did. Maria is not a natural disaster; a disaster, yes, but I know it’s not her fault. I can see it in her eyes. We can be scissor sisters after hours. Maybe that’ll fix her, just a little bit. My smile faltered, and I ran to catch up with John who started walking ahead without my permission. I looked at him fondly, a smile rising to my face. 

“John, are you… mad at me?”

“What? What! No. Shit, man… How do you know everyone in this town?” His head went into his hands. I frowned.

“I don’t know. It just happens sometimes. I didn’t even know Thomas liked Maria like that. She has a boyfriend and stuff. I think,” I stopped talking, stopped moving entirely, and John stopped as well. He threw me a knowing look, but he still looked very tired. “I don’t think he knows.”

“He’s not the kind of guy to go after a girl with a guy already.”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess. He’s still annoying though.” I would kill _him_ at dawn. 

“Not really. I mean, kind of. Isn’t everyone? He’s cool. You should talk to him more. One on one.”  
  
“Maybe.” I looked at John, who had a withering look on his face. Oh no. This is the face of a potential chewing-Alexander-out session.

“Someone who doesn’t blindly follow you isn’t your enemy. You both have a lot more in common than you think.”

“But-”

“Shut up. Practice is at two. Don’t be late.” John cut me off, finally taking off again and taking bigger strides to actually make it to class on time, being that his first class was on the other side of the campus. Me, though? I took my time. 

“Two? My lecture ends at three. Motherfucker.” I said, mostly to myself. I licked my lips, remembering that I would not be here if I didn’t lie on my college application, so I just jogged to the building. Alone. I looked like a clown, and I felt it too; college kids were just very extensionally crisis’d. In some aspects, it’s kill or be killed, write or fail, go join this club or be lonely, be ugly or catfish grown men on the internet to afford that sketchy plastic surgery on the wrong side of town. Inherently, whatever you do in college is your choice. However, walking alone isn’t my choice. I felt like I was going to bust a lung, so I didn’t even try to catch up with John, who was soaring across the football field like a man on a mission. Angrily. A blaze of fire left his trail and the bugs migrating in the faux grass turned into ash. 

And while John’s intentions of leaving me alone are usually just him being fed up with me (which I understand, to an extent), I can usually drill in some hardcore thinking with myself. That eventually leads to me walking into class (late), looking like I just took a big fucking pill of my daily morning alcohol poisioning and lack of a mental crutch. The girl next to me has offered me aspirin more times to count, all the times I refused. However, I’m not the biggest thinker. I usually see things and analyze them critically, for just a moment, and then leave them alone. That’s what people expect of me. That’s what I will give them. My brain has sometimes conjured up the biggest thoughts, it sometimes wants to capsize over itself and make a big mess because Ma has always taught me thinking counts more than a thousand disgusting words I could gurgle up from my lips.

So thanks John, now I feel like shit. Love you too. 

* * *

I was called out of the lecture early.

Now, that fact goes without saying; prof’s teacher-phone started ringing and she looked red in the face, embarrassed that she received a call in the middle of her tittering on her rocker about Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s enlightenment theory after someone else questioned it, mostly questioning the thought of enlightenment. The call seemed to seep into her veins that the world disagreed with her. She took the call, darted her eyes directly towards me, and looked down at her desk again. I was boiling hot with potential embarrassment. Only kindergarteners and bad employees get called down. Right? 

“Alex, you’re being called. By..?”

A pause. She nodded.

“George Washington.”

My heart fluttered. It was only 1:27. 

“You’re dismissed. You can ask another classmate for their notes.” She nodded, and then continued onto what she was talking about before. My face was hot and my smile was meek. I didn’t even utter a thank you as I put my books into my bag and collected myself, walking out of the lecture hall with such a haste I could obliterate the entire senate with my footpath alone. At least my laptop would stop overheating. 

I suppose nothing is worse than a laptop overheating. 

I dug into my back pocket for my phone, squinting at it. I turned it on. Wow. No new texts. Sad. Maybe, possibly, people actually listened during lectures? Very interesting concept. I turned it over a few times like it was a relic; it was, in a sense, because it was cracked in every possible angle and the only place not cracked was the charging port. I sighed quietly and opened John’s contact.

1:28:02: _dude were you pulled out of class early_

A venomously quick reply. I smiled. 

1:29:34: _No?_

Oh. Well, shit. 

I don’t like to think I’m treated differently than the rest of the team. His face is steel, and his eyes are hard, but he likes to smile in my direction a lot. It puts the acid reflux down sometimes. George’s impressive showings of gratitude are seemingly only reserved for his four dogs, (Tipsy, Tipler, Drunkard, and Vulcan respectively) his girlfriend and really bad beer (as Thomas likes to put it) are quite massive and frankly, unignorable. It makes me uncomfortable, almost, because I’ve known him a little longer than the other teammates have. And while it’s no surprise that George Washington’s name would come after who was calling me down, I knew it wouldn’t be about sports.

He isn’t slow in any way, shape or form. To be quite honest, there’s the slightest possibility that he actually talked to Ma. Or anyone in the neighborhood. He’s unapologetically nosy in the best way possible. I’m not rooting for the silent treatment at home because George’s rancid energy decided to be soaked up into couch cushions and Ma’s Venus retrograde is officially thrown off. She’s always off the charts when people enter her boiled hotdog water swamp aka her territory, which is why I started worrying about Maria at that moment. She, technically, _is_ a new face to Ma. But that all slipped away (at least the look bordering onto constipation) when I saw Thomas was waiting outside of George’s office.

So we’d be waiting together. Okay.

“Hi.” He said.

“Hi.” I knew he immediately wanted to continue the conversation, but he held his tongue. I inhaled sharply. 

“Did you get the keys to the Toyota back?” I started.

“It’s a Grand Cherokee.” 

“Are you sure? I could’ve sworn you drove a Toyota.”

“It’s a Grand Cherokee, and yes.” The conversation flatlined. I stifled a yawn and stretched my arms. He blinked for a brief moment at me and went back to his phone. I started again.

“So, Thomas. How did you meet Maria?” 

He blinked again. “I met her on a forum.”

“What forum?”

“The school forum.”

“But she doesn’t go to this school.”

“She still uses the forum.”

“Oookay, sure. Whatever.” Another brief silence. He gave me a side glance. I glared back. He backed off. Isn’t this conversation going so swimmingly, flowing with such ease it could cover for lube? No? Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking too. 

The irony is that we’re both in law. 

“You know Maria has a boyfriend, right?” He looked up from his phone, and really looked at me; I’m not sure how to say this, but this is the first time I’ve seen Thomas with no remarkable expression on his face. I frowned in slight fear. His tongue clicked in his closed mouth for a bit, probably thinking, before he spoke again. 

“No, I didn’t. Who?” 

“I dunno. I just know, you know? His name might be James. I don’t know. she was crying in french.” He looked at me with a puzzled expression, but didn’t press on. 

“You know french?”

“Maria knows french.” 

“Oh. Yeah, hm. That’s weird. She didn’t bring him up once. That’s a bit awko.” He sighed. 

“I can only imagine.” He nodded solemnly. My frown disappeared. He looked back at his phone. The silence was no longer awkward. I don’t know how to say I feel bad for Thomas but in this moment, I truly do. I don’t know how to describe it. Maybe internal loathing?

Then, a stern “Alexander?” was heard, cutting me off from my thoughts and internal loathing. Good timing.

“Good luck.”

“Mmm-hm.” I nodded, and walked through the door to George’s office. 

* * *

Practice.

Practice is an interesting concept. Now, I’m not sure if it would be so interesting if we had a different coach, but here we are. With this coach. I’m not sure if I’m fearful of George or just admiring him so much that when I sweat it simply turns into gold, but George really makes me feel things. And sometimes, I confuse the sweat for tears, and sometimes it’s the other way around. Either way, it’s _hot against my face._

“What color jersey?” John asked. 

“I heard it was a green day.” Thomas replied, still looking annoyed from this morning’s conversation. With me or with George, I don’t know. 

A green day? Fuck yeah! Maybe a few laps, maybe drills, but green days are the best. I think that’s why green is my favorite color; I subconsciously link it to not actually doing hard work. But when we walked into the sweaty cramped gymnasium, everyone else huddling in a circle, I knew we would be wrong. 

_So wrong._

The first thing that appeared in front of us was a Charles Lee with a bloody nose, the blood having reached his legs and it seeped into his (only good) pair of socks. I winced. The circle opened up to make room for us. He was sitting criss-cross on the gym floor.  
  
“What the fuck happened?” I asked, blinking. Was I surprised? Not really. Just a bit floored that someone was decked out this early. 

“George passed me the volleyball.”

“George… passed you the volleyball?” 

“Yeah! Hold up, listen.” Charles sounded muffled behind the tissue, so he took it out, but more blood shot out of his nose. He groaned in annoyance and took a clean one. 

“Do you… need more tissues?” Thomas asked, his eyes widening.

“No, no. I’m good. Okay. Listen. Listen. So, George was like ‘Play. Now.’ and the volleyball net was set up and ever-” Charles went to sneeze, and everyone took a big step away. Cringe radar was in the red zone. 

“You’re clearly not in a shape to be talking so much.” Lafayette said kindly, his small accent sounding a lot more evident. That’s code for shut up. His eyes were scrunched up and everything, but his smile was still evident. The tension was still layered like a fucking onion. Lafayette helped him stand up gingerly, and pointed to the bleachers. Charles rolled his eyes, but started making his way over anyways, his hand reaching in his back pocket for his phone. 

“George lunged the ball at his face.” Lafayette finished.

We all hesitated to speak. Now, it’s quite rare for George to actually lash out like that. It’s been a while since he’s gotten angry, like, _really_ angry, and if anything, he doesn’t really let his anger reach that level. Was it something I said earlier? I glanced up at Thomas, who seemed to have no idea what I was thinking about, because he plainly shrugged in my direction. Great. 

“Does anyone know what’s wrong with him?” I asked, finally. A certain tension lifted from the circle. Lafayette bit his lip. 

“‘Dunno. But it’s probably gonna to be a blue day now.” Fuck. Fuck! Oh, come on. Charles Lee, just be a man and take the pain! The possible dislocation! Please. I’m begging you. You are definitely a fighter. Instead of going into a rage, though, because Charles literally sneezed out a blood clot the shape of Alaska out of the corner of my eye, I directed my attention back to Lafayette.

“John, as the team captain, you gotta make the call.” Lafayette finished. 

I didn’t realize he was silent until Lafayette poked the snake. His face didn’t waiver. 

“I’ll talk to George. Hold on.” John nodded to the circle, but he was looking through me. He nodded and made his way towards the gym’s office. 

“Wig. Practice already went to hell.” Thomas turned to face me. Me, being taken aback, stifled a nervous laugh and looked up at him. 

“Yeah.” 

“Did you say something during the little conference thing that might’ve ticked him off?”

“Probably.” Thomas rolled his eyes and looked away from me. 

“Always the same with you, you know. It’s quite sad.” 

“Oh, please. Shut the fuck up. I’m remarkable.”

“Remarkably annoying. Anyways, willing to spill the deets? I won’t tell, I won’t even tell John.” His eyes looked hopeful. I shook my head. Sighing, he walked over to the bleachers without me. I followed suit. 

See, the thing is, I _did_ say something that ticked him off. However, I don’t want to give Thomas any satisfaction. It was still pretty messy, though. It was a normal conference, consisting of _the_ grade talk, the talk that makes me more embarrassed than when my mom tried to explain to me the birds and the bees, because this is _George Washington_ we’re talking about. And George Washington is a man who shoots rays out of his eyes. Probably. 

It’s strange how familiar he is. 

_“Son, we really need to be talking about your grades.”_

_“I thought you aren’t allowed to look at my grades? Are you exploiting the gradebook?”_

_The corner of George’s mouth twitched. “No. Rachel told me.”_

_My smile faded into nothingness. “You’re in contact with my mom?”_

_“I’ve always been in contact with your mom. Since you were enrolled.”_

_“Wow, that’s seriously fucked up.” I imagined myself leaving, I imagined myself walking right out of this office and never talking to him one on one again, but I knew I couldn’t. He cared too much about the team. I couldn’t let him down in that way, at least._

_“No. I’m supposed to have access but you locked the account.”_

_“I didn’t lock the account, I just changed who has access. I should probably get my mom off it too.”_

_George rolled his eyes, and finally stopped typing at his computer. “You’re honestly not understanding what I’m getting at. Just because you’re here on a scholarship doesn’t mean that you can just come and ignore your grades.”_

_“My grades are fantastic! I have a B average. Except for one.”_

_“Except for one. Exactly my point. You have to be on top of these things.” Am I egging him on without even trying?_  
  
_He continued again when I didn’t speak. “I’ve been in contact with George, and he’s looking for a tutor for you.”_

_My jaw dropped. A tutor? I haven’t had a tutor since I was behind in Reading and Comprehension in third grade. I rubbed my jaw, feeling an ache._

_“You can’t do this to me. I’m supposed to be focusing my time on the team , and my degre- ”_

_“Son, you can’t argue with me. It’s already set in stone.” He crossed his arms, still expressionless._

_“Please don’t call me son.”_

_He paused, his eyes softening slightly._

_“I’m sorry. I forgot.”_

_I ignored the apology. “I wish you talked to me beforehand though, that’s what normal people do.”_

_“A-” He looked like he was fuming. I resisted the urge to light the office on fire. I’m sure he did too._

_“And you’re going to go on a tangent again. Look, I’ll reply to George when he texts me, okay? I’ll listen to who the tutor is and whatever if you get off my dick. I’m an adult now. Please.”_

_He blinked, and nodded very slowly. I frowned again._

_“Okay. Is this meeting over? Thomas is waiting.”_

_He hurriedly nodded, and I ushered myself out the room. That was handled very poorly, on my part, but right in that moment all I was seeing was red. There’s no way I somehow let George fucking Washington , a man of literal steel, shit talk my grades with my mom over rosehip tea. I was stuntin’ in the worst way possible._

_Thomas didn’t give me a second glance as he was called into George’s office._

I was shuffled out of my thoughts when I heard George’s booming voice echoing through the gym, John shuffling aimlessly behind him. 

“Everyone! Get into their uniforms! John, could you help Charles with his nose situation?” He bent down a bit to be at John’s level, his cheeks flushing in a sort of embarrassment. 

“Yes, Coach.”

“Thank you.”

He turned back to the rest of us, a confused expression growing on his face.

“Well, what are you guys waiting for?”

Silence. Nobody dared to speak.

  
  
“Coach, what color jersey?” Lafayette said finally, allowing me to sigh in relief quietly. George seemed to think about it for a minute, the forehead lines creasing like he has an extra skull. He spoke finally with such a tone like he was just standing there idly just to waste time.

“Blue.”

I cried a little. 

Now, blue is a little different than green. Actually, it’s a lot different. It makes me want to go home and take a seven hour long power shower than a fourteen hour power _nap_. It makes me want to do hydrotherapy and be walked around like a horse on a lead around a hairy-ass pool. Anything but the burpees. Anything but the laps around the gym. Anything but Thomas literally fat shaming me.

It doesn’t hurt, but it does. If I could piss out acid, I would aim for his eye every time. 

* * *

“Ma.”

I walked into the house, the smell throwing me in for a doozy. Like.. alcohol. And metallic. I could feel it on my tongue. Oh god. Not this again. Honestly, though? Anything is better than my sweaty body. 

“Ma?” I called again, more frantic. 

“Yeah? I’m upstairs.” She called back. Her accent was thicker than usual. I tried to hold back my frantic tone. It came out more wobbly than I would’ve liked. 

“You’re upstairs? It sounds like you’re riding a donkey. Are you fucking okay?”

“Yeah! What? Why? It’s just the paint you’re smelling. Don’t worry.” What? That’s seemingly somehow worse! I groaned and approached the steps.

“Where are you upstairs?”

“Your room.” I froze. 

My room? I thought we had an agreement, a _contract_ of sorts, that my room was forever and always off limits when I wasn’t home. I agreed to this rule for the most part, only trotting into her room and stealing a 20 dollar bill that was basically just left on the nightstand for _me,_ but other than that, I’m literally a golden child. I’m not sure what her rising sign is, or what the hell it does, but it’s probably a Libra. She has her astral chart stuck to the fridge. 

“Ma?”

“Yes?” She was now turned to me. I’m not sure where I got my looks from, but I definitely did not get them from her. She looks so… interior designer. So… modern. Classy in the most mom-like way. I’m pretty sure she knows it too. If only one in my life was self aware, it would most definitely be her. 

“You… cleaned my room?” 

“I did.” She looked too delighted for my liking. I stifled a groan and took in the new scenery.

“Why?”

“Your room smelled like Petco.”

“What? It smelled fine. Perfectly normal.” 

“No it didn’t. And as your mother—“

“Stop,” I tried, my eyes begging. She didn’t listen, of course.

“—I do these things for your well being! Actually, no. Mostly mine.”

“Fucking cruel.” I walked over to my bed, and remade it. I felt anxious, to be quite honest. I’m not sure why she cleaned my room, whether she felt sporadic or whatever, but now I’m mad. I’m in no mood to accidentally kick myself in the balls during practice, but like, am I ever? Compare her deep cleaning to that. They’re practically _twins_. I felt her eyes burn holes into my back.

“Anyways, I was hoping you’d be in a better mood because Maria came over.”

I stopped making my bed and turned around to look at her. I felt a blood vessel in my brain pop. In relief or anxiety, I don’t actually know.

“She… did?” I probably sounded too positive, because Ma smirked. I’m fucked.

“Yeah. She said hello. Helped me clean your room.”

I groaned. The potential lesbian saw my secret Tiger Beat collection too? I was probably going to have a stroke right there out of embarrassment. “Oh my _fucking_ **_GOD_** **,** Ma. I don’t understand you.”

“Language.” 

“Whatever.” She tsked in my direction. I tried to ignore her, but it’s hard. She’s a _presence_. 

“Do you like her?”

“Do I like Maria? Yes! Why are you asking? Do you have a thing for her?” She eyed me curiously, and I sat there for a few seconds, trying to understand. When I did, my ears turned bright red. I literally gasped _out loud._

“What? No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes Ma, I’m one-thousand percent _positive._ ”

She paused for a minute, studying my face intensely. God, I’m back in John’s fucking courtroom again. 

“Okay. You know you can tell me anything. How do you know her anyways?”

“You probably don’t want to know.”

“I do.” She was peer pressuring me. Aren’t moms there to help us prevent this? Invisible sweat dripped down my forehead. I gulped. She either didn’t notice, or she didn’t care.

“I went to dinner with your sister and she was there.”

It looked like her heart stopped. God, I felt so bad. I held back a wince as the gears in her brain went to work; I could almost hear them clicking in her head. She seemed to hesitate before speaking, and I don’t blame her.

“Are you...serious right now?”

“Yeah. She said she’d pay, so I came.”

She smiled very softly, her eyes crinkling. “That’s my boy.”

“Thank you, Rachelle Faucette Buck Hamilton.”

“Of course, Alexander Hamilton.” And the conversation ceased. Now, I don’t quite know anyone like my mom; even her sister couldn’t compete with Ma’s otherworldly spiritual nature and her likeness for most things that walk. Her features even add to her mysterious but kind demeanor. She has _beads braided in her hair, for christ’s sake._ She’s like, a white girl in a suburban neighborhood. I’ve always wanted to be like her, except for the fact that she leaves her razors everywhere. That is a habit from her I will not let myself pick up. 

Everything else can stay, though. 

“Wait, Ma.”

She turned back to me. “Hm?”

“Since when was I getting a tutor?”

She looked confused. “Tutor?” 

I blinked. An awkward tension settled.

“Did George not talk to you?”

“Neighbor George or Coach George?”

“Either or.”

She scratched her head. “No. Washington did talk to me about grades, though. You should probably get a tutor. You still don’t know your division times tables.”

She was flaunting in her own glory because she took off without letting me get another word in. Fuck. That really hurt my feelings. I relaxed my fingers and flopped onto my bed. Today wasn’t hard by any means, but I still wanted to cry, Like Really Badly. I resisted the temptation and put my phone on my nightstand, until it vibrated. I slid up and opened the text.

It was from neighbor George.

_6:12:04: You’ll be meeting your tutor next friday._

I groaned internally, but hid it behind the wall of a text message.

_6:12:17: cool_

Not cool. 

_6:13:11: He goes by Aaron Burr. You might know him._

I blinked at my phone in thought. Aaron Burr? I’ve heard that name before. I clicked my tongue so hard in confusion I forgot for a moment I had to take a shower, and went to send another message, but stopped. 

_Aaron Burr? That’s really familiar._

**Author's Note:**

> !! Always looking for feedback !!  
> Comments are very appreciated. :)


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